


In which D'Artagnan thinks he's on a mission, and Aramis doesn't blow out any candles (because that's not a thing they did in 17thC France)

by Nemeris (Eris18)



Series: a scholar and a priest [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis being his usual verbose and suave self, Consent, Corset, Crossdressing, D'Artagnan is not a wilting little flower, Enthusiasm, Enthusiastic Consent, Historical Accuracy, I REALLY LIKE EXPLICIT CONSENT OKAY, I tried not to use too many epithets I AM SORRY, M/M, Random BBC reference, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eris18/pseuds/Nemeris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan gets put in a corset because of reasons. In other news, it's Aramis' birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which D'Artagnan thinks he's on a mission, and Aramis doesn't blow out any candles (because that's not a thing they did in 17thC France)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gemothy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemothy/gifts).



> Beta'd by [Anna](http://trumpetsandbookmarks.tumblr.com) :)
> 
> So I was looking at corsets and then I was talking to [Gem](http://cakesandfail.tumblr.com) and then this happened and I really don't know how but I'm totally okay with it.
> 
> You can also come say hi at my [Tumblr](http://tommisonspubictopiary.tumblr.com) if you really want.

“Stop complaining!” Constance scolded as she pulled on the laces yet again. “Women have been doing this since Catherine de Medici, so you can cope with it for one night.”

D’Artagnan knew better than to argue; Constance on a normal day was a shining example of independence, quick-wittedness and brilliance. Get her annoyed about something and that was multiplied by ten, but with anger added in...which wasn’t fun if it was aimed at you.

He found himself pushed forward again, made to lean on the armoire - the only piece of furniture in the rundown room other than the bed - as Constance laced him into the infernal contraption deemed ‘absolutely necessary’ by the others. It was at times like this that D’Artagnan regretted having a particularly youthful face and slim figure.

It didn’t help that Porthos was standing in the doorway, ‘keeping guard’ - otherwise known as sniggering into his hand as he watched D’Artagnan gasp for breath with each tightening of the laces. D’Artagnan wasn’t finding anything about this particularly funny; then again, he was the one that couldn’t breathe.

The make-up didn’t help, either. He had seen himself in a mirror - he looked _pretty_. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that when the make-up was being applied to his skin, but Porthos had shrugged and said,

“I’ve seen men who do this for a living, or even just because they want to. I’ve drunk with them, played Bone-Ace against them. They are good people. Rubbish at cards, some of them, but good people. You can deal with feeling ‘odd’ for one night.”

That was another thing: no one had told him the specifics of the mission, and no one would tell him anything other than the basics. He was simply to dress up here, in this shabby, odd little room in the backstreets of Paris, and wait. When his...client? mark?...whatever, came along, he was to talk and gain information. If he wanted to do more, that was up to him. The mission was simply to get information out of this man...or woman. Seriously, he had been told _nothing_.

He had simply been trussed up in an underdress and a corset, and Constance had started lacing. It seemed to go on forever, and he was having trouble breathing properly. According to Constance, that was normal and he could shut up about it if he was going to be a big baby about the whole thing.

He felt the strings pull one last time, forcing yet more air out of his lungs, before finally the tugging stopped and he could feel Constance tying the bow. Once he could feel that she’d stopped, he stood up and looked at himself in the mirror.

His eyes widened at what he saw: defined hips and waist, his broad shoulders somehow giving him an almost hourglass figure. With the make-up as a finishing touch he looked...well, he hoped his client/mark/whatever had a few glasses of wine, but he could definitely just about pass as pretty enough for the job.

“Constance,” Porthos grinned, “you’ve excelled yourself. This will do very nicely.”

“And you can stop leering and all!” Constance chuckled, batting Porthos away. “You want some fun, go buy it on your own coin!”

She turned to D’Artagnan, then, a reassuring look on her face.

“Porthos will be outside, ready to help you if needs be,” she said, placing a hand on D’Artagnan’s exposed shoulder. “Just shout if you need him.”

“Will I need to? Shout, I mean,” D’Artagnan tried breaking out the puppy dog eyes, hoping even now that there was a way around all this.

Constance’s silence was far from encouraging, though she soon gathered herself enough to clip him around the ear.

“Don’t be an idiot!” she tutted. “You’re a Musketeer!”

And with that, she and Porthos left the room, closing the door behind them. D’Artagnan could hear their voices, muffled by wood and wall, unintelligible. Clearly they were bickering about something, and D’Artagnan started to worry a bit more. Who exactly _was_ he meeting?

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Aramis trudged up the stairs, scrunching his nose up at the state of the place. He had no idea why Athos would be so insistent about visiting this particular establishment. From the looks of it, it wasn’t doing too well for business. He avoided touching the walls, worried that some sort of catastrophic event would occur and the whole place would collapse on his head.

Reaching the upstairs landing, he saw Porthos and Constance bickering quietly outside the room at the farthest end. Well, not exactly bickering; Constance was berating Porthos very well for something, and Porthos was rather wisely not contradicting her in any way. As Aramis got closer, he caught the tail end of what she was saying.

“...and if this goes wrong, Porthos, then on yours and Athos’ heads be it! He’s my friend and I won’t have him upset, you hear me?”

...Friend? Constance thought of Aramis as a friend? Well, that was...flattering, considering that they only really interacted if D’Artagnan was somewhere in the vicinity. Still, he wasn’t going to knock it. Friends could be hard to come by, especially ones as clever and quick-witted as Constance.

It was then that Porthose noticed his friend approaching; he smiled.

“Happy birthday, Aramis!” he said, opening his arms and pulling Aramis into a bear hug. Aramis returned the embrace, slapping Porthos manfully on the back before pulling away. “Are you ready for your present? Even Constance chipped in for this one!”

At this, Aramis arched an eyebrow, turning his gaze to Constance.

“A lady of your standing, Madame?” he drawled. “I appreciate the gesture, but what if your husband were to find out how you were spending his money?”

Constance pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

“It wasn’t _money_ , M’sieur, but _time_ ,” she replied tersely. “And that is a lot less than my husband spends on this sort of thing.”

“And what,” Aramis asked, “would this sort of thing be, exactly?”

“Why don’t you go in and find out?” Porthos mocked, opening the door and pushing Aramis inside the room.

Aramis heard the lock clunk into place as he spun round to say something to Porthos; he could also hear muffled voices through the door, but couldn’t make out what was being said. From the sounds of it, Constance still wasn’t happy. Aramis did not envy Porthos for being on the receiving end of that.

“...Aramis?” came a small voice from the room. It sounded familiar; Aramis turned around to see...

...Well. This was indeed a very interesting birthday present. Interesting and...

Aramis took off his hat and placed it in front of somewhere it was currently needed. Perhaps a small chat was required before making use of that particular area.

“D...D’Artagnan?” he choked out. “But...what’s going on?”

D’Artagnan’s face scrunched into that adorable confused look that it took on at least three times a day. It was like watching a puppy. A very beautiful, naive puppy, that was currently wearing perfect make-up, an underdress, and a corset that gave him an extremely well-defined figure. Aramis was glad of the hat. Aramis would continue to be glad of the hat until he and D’Artagnan had talked further.

“They told me to wait for my...well, they didn’t say...and Constance put me in all this and then they just told me to wait.”

It was amazing, Aramis thought, just to watch the process of emotion on D’Artagnan’s face as he realised exactly the situation he was in. It was a wave of expression, as D’Artagnan’s eyebrows lowered, raised, and then lowered again, and his mouth opened in shock. Aramis thought the whole thing was beautiful to watch. Then again, Aramis thought D’Artagnan was beautiful overall. Not that he’d have said anything ever, given that the boy was practically his ward.

But it seemed that Porthos and Athos had noticed - not that Aramis was ever subtle about these things, he’d admit - and had conspired to make something happen. Aramis, however, was not at all in the habit of taking on unwilling partners, and he knew his friends knew this. But if D’Artagnan was here, then...

“D’Artagnan,” he choked out, “do you understand what they are asking you? It is very important to me that you are fully aware of what is being asked of you.”

The Gascon blushed, nodding, but that wasn’t enough.

“D’Artagnan, I need you to say it out loud,” Aramis’ voice was gravelly and low. “Do...do you want this? If not, I will make them open the door and we will not speak of this again.”

D’Artagnan coughed to clear his throat, before gathering that cockiness that was usually ever-present and staring Aramis eye-to-eye.

“I want this,” he said, firm and clearly audible. “You think I haven’t noticed? Course I have, you’re not subtle about these things at _all_. So...let’s do this. You and me.”

Aramis grinned, stepping closer and cupping D’Artagnan’s cheek. The hat dropped to the floor, forgotten and now unnecessary.

“Oh, this isn’t going to be like one of your quick farmboy romps in a hayloft,” he smirked. “Let me take a proper look at you. You got all dressed up for me tonight, didn’t you?”

D’Artagnan nodded, that lovely blush returning to his cheeks, turning them a beautiful shade of red that stood out against his olive skin.

“You look beautiful, don’t you?” Aramis smiled, stepping away slightly and starting to circle D’Artagnan. “They did a good job with you. That corset defines your figure perfectly, and your figure is perfect anyway. Slim, but powerful from all that training with us. Watching you exert yourself to impress us, D’Artagnan. Or is it not all of us you wish to impress with your skill? Maybe it’s just me? Hmm?”

At this, Aramis allowed his fingers to skim across the back of D’Artagnan’s exposed shoulders, causing a shiver to pass down the Gascon’s spine visibly. It was a delight to watch, and Aramis took the momentary distraction as a chance to press himself against D’Artagnan’s back, whispering right into his ear,

“Tell me, D’Artagnan. Tell me who it is you’re trying to impress by working so hard.”

He could almost _feel_ D’Artagnan hold back a whimper before answering,

“Of course it’s you, idiot,” D’Artagnan’s voice may have been breathy, but his usual fire was not in any way diminished by the fact.

Aramis chuckled, dropping a quick kiss to D’Artagnan’s shoulder as a reward before resuming his circle around the other man. He brought a hand up to once again cup D’Artagnan’s face, but this time he began to rub gently at the colour staining the boy’s lips.

“You don’t need these paints,” Aramis almost-whispered, “nothing about you needs enhancing in any way. I see you out there, and your passion for what we do draws me in. It seems Porthos and Athos approve, but they couldn’t resist having a little fun.”

D’Artagnan grinned as Aramis chuckled. The lip colour had smudged slightly onto D’Artagnan’s cheeks and chin, giving him a touch of the debauched. The fact that nothing had actually happened yet was something that Aramis was determined to fix immediately.

“D’Artagnan,” he began, stepping ever closer, “may I kiss you?”

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but nod, and then Aramis’ lips were on his. It wasn’t possessive, nor was it too rough. Aramis was simply asking permission with lips and tongue, and D’Artagnan was all too happy to give it, and request the same. It was a partnership, and D’Artagnan found he liked it; he let out little helpless moans, bringing his own hands up to curl into Aramis’ long hair and keep him close, connected as he was.

It ended too soon, though, with Aramis stepping back, gently grabbing D’Artagnan’s wrists and putting his hands back by his sides.

“I’m not done,” Aramis smirked. “That was just a taster.”

“...If that was a taster, then I’m probably not going to survive the rest,” D’Artagnan replied.

Aramis laughed, loud and hearty, before stepping round so that he was once again at the Gascon’s back. His fingers once again danced along D’Artagnan’s shoulders, before sliding down his back, stopping at the top of the lacing for the corset.

“This looks rather tight,” Aramis said, and D’Artagnan could _hear_ the smirk. “I suppose you’d like me to help you take it off?”

“Well,” D’Artagnan replied, “you’re the expert in these matters. Best to leave it to the professionals, right?”

“Your cheek is going to get you in trouble some day,” Aramis scolded, but there was no heat or anger behind his words. They were almost fond. “Maybe one of these days I should teach you proper discipline, hmm?”

“Well, if you’re going to be completely cliché about the situation...” D’Artagnan couldn’t help but snort, trying to hold in his giggles.

At this, Aramis spun D’Artagnan around and bent him slightly; now he was leaning against the armoire, his arms holding him up. It was the exact mirror of the position he had been in earlier, but the situation was infinitely better and less confusing.

D’Artagnan could feel Aramis’ fingers tugging gently at each lacing, teasing at them and allowing his fingers to slip in between to touch at D’Artagnan’s cloth-covered skin, before reaching what must be the bow in the centre of it all. Without a word, Aramis tugged the bow’s second knot open and pulled at one of the laces, loosening it and watching as it slowly came undone.

D’Artagnan could already breathe slightly easier, and as he felt the laces loosen more and more he took deeper breaths, trying both to get much needed air into his lungs and also calm himself from the anticipation saturating the room. Finally, he felt the corset come off and drop onto the armoire; he’d never been happier to be undressed.

“You’re just...” Aramis breathed behind him. It was odd, D’Artagnan thought, to hear someone so verbose suddenly lose their words. It was also uplifting that _D’Artagnan_ was the one that had made that happen. And it was this that made D’Artagnan take a chance, standing up straight and turning to face Aramis; he smirked before putting his hand in the middle of Aramis’ chest and backing him toward the bed. Pushing lightly, he followed Aramis as he fell and straddled him.

“I think it’s rather unfair,” D’Artagnan said, pushing Aramis’ jacket off his shoulders, “that I am the only one who is anywhere near undressed, sir. And as a gentleman, as a _Musketeer_ , fairness should be your top priority.”

“Indeed,” Aramis replied, sitting up just enough to remove his jacket, before pulling at his shirt and throwing it to...somewhere. Neither of them really cared.

Their fingers met as they both reached for the laces of Aramis’ breeches, For a moment, they fumbled, digits interlocking briefly. D’Artagnan took the opportunity to lean down for another kiss, taking control and moving their tongues together. Pulling back, he grinned as he saw Aramis’ slightly starry-eyed look.

D’Artagnan spent a few moments taking in all of Aramis, from that stupidly perfect face and moustache down to the trail of hair leading into the still-laced breeches. Well, not laced for long, as D’Artagnan’s suddenly nimble fingers made quick work of the fastenings and started to push the damned things down Aramis’ hips.

“Wait, wait,” Aramis panted, albeit helping things along. “Do you...do you have oil?”

D’Artagnan stopped.

“I...hadn’t thought of that,” he replied. “...What do we-”

Aramis was already up and walking away, letting his breeches fall as he walked. He rapped loudly on the door; it opened swiftly, revealing Constance and Porthos still at their post.

Constance squeaked loudly and turned around; unsurprisingly, given that Aramis was leaning against the doorframe in all his natural glory.

“Oil?” He smirked. Porthos tried to look annoyed, but it was obvious that he was trying to hide a smirk as he handed over a small vial. “Thank you. Much appreciated.”

And then he shut the door, making his way back to the bed and D’Artagnan.

“...Did you _really_ just...?” D’Artagnan was almost flailing. “They’re going to know...! And you...! Naked and...like _that_!” He pointed to Aramis’ groin, which was in a rather natural state given the evening’s proceedings.

“Nothing Porthos hasn’t seen before,” Aramis shrugged. “Might’ve shocked Constance a bit, though.” He grinned at that, leaning down to plant a brief kiss upon D’Artagnan’s lips. “As for knowing, well...they put you in a dress and a corset for me. I’m pretty certain they were prepared for this eventuality, given that Porthos just handed me a vial of oil.”

D’Artagnan...didn’t really have a response for that, which made Aramis grin and kiss him again, putting the vial safely to one side as they both got lost in each other’s lips once more.

“I suppose,” D’Artagnan whispered eventually, still close enough to kiss, “that we should put that oil to good use, then.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Aramis replied, grabbing the vial and kneeling over D’Artagnan. “Have you done this before? No shame in it if not, I just want to know how much I have to explain.”

“Porthos’ humour, some village murmurs,” D’Artagnan replied. “Haven’t done it myself. That makes it sound like I was saving myself for you or something, which I wasn’t. I just hadn’t got around to it.”

“Porthos’ hum...you mean to say that your experience in this lies with that man’s idiotic jokes?” Aramis sighed. “Well, then. Let’s start at the beginning. I need the oil for my fingers, to open you up back there. Then I will apply it to my prick, and then...well...insert it carefully. The rest, I will leave up to your imagination. Are you aware of what you have back there that makes it all so enjoyable?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“Good, it seems those village rumours had some use,” Aramis said, satisfied. “Is there any of what I just said that you _don’t_ want to do?”

D’Artagnan shook his head.

“Excellent,” Aramis grinned. “Be a good man and shimmy out of that underdress, then turn onto your front, would you?”

D’Artagnan hurried to obey, flinging the underdress to some godforsaken corner of the room and flipping himself onto his stomach. The next few moments were empty of action, but he could hear a small pop of a cork and then some small slick noises - he guessed that Aramis was indeed oiling up his fingers.

“Spread your legs for me,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan shuffled artlessly, making enough of a gap for Aramis to slide into. “Ready?”

“Y-yes,” D’Artagnan replied. Admittedly, he was nervous, but he wanted this. He _really_ wanted this. And then he felt one of Aramis’ fingers pressing against his hole, and then gently in. He felt Aramis shift a bit, before he felt hot breaths puffing against his ear.

“You’re so...” Aramis was panting slightly. “You’re so _tight_ , D’Artagnan. This is just one finger, and I can’t help but think how you’re going to feel around my prick.”

The finger inside D’Artagnan moved, building up a slow but constant rhythm. And then...then D’Artagnan let out a cry as his muscles tensed involuntarily. So that’s what that was...that felt _good_.

“I thought you’d like that,” Aramis grinned, slowly adding a second finger. “I’m half-tempted to make you peak off my fingers alone, but I’d much prefer to feel you tighten like that as I take you fully. Just you wait until we try it the other way round, you’ll understand what I mean.”

D’Artagnan nodded, panting and pushing back for more. Aramis chuckled, beginning his teasing again with two fingers, occasionally pressing in and causing more breaks in D’Artagnan’s concentration. He did the same with three fingers, even four.

“You can never be too stretched for this type of thing,” Aramis explained. “It might be teasing you too much, but you’ll thank me when we get to the fucking proper.”

By this point, all of D’Artagnan’s words had long left him. He was reduced to panting and whimpering and groaning, with the occasional grunt thrown in for good measure. He was about to try to find the words to beg Aramis to get on with it, when finally the fingers pulled out and he felt Aramis settle between his thighs.

There were more slick sounds, before the sound of ceramic gently hitting the floor, and then...then Aramis was pressing in, taking his time, drawing it out like the teasing _bastard_ he was.

“Bastard, is it?” Aramis chuckled, and D’Artagnan realised he must have said that aloud. “I’ll have you know that I can prove my lineage back to Charlemagne. Now, do you need me to still for a moment, or shall I continue?”

D’Artagnan took a minute or two; he felt full, but not overly stretched. It seemed that Aramis had been right about all that stretching. It still took a while for it to start feeling good rather than just alright, but after a couple of experimental movements of his own hips, D’Artagnan nodded for Aramis to carry on.

Aramis placed a kiss on the back of D’Artagnan’s neck before beginning to move, his angle shifting around slightly until he found the one that made D’Artagnan cry out and clench with each thrust. He kept aiming for those cries, those gasps, those moans, and D’Artagnan was only too happy to provide them and add his own thrusts back on to Aramis’ cock.

“Good boy,” Aramis panted out, his forehead resting between D’Artagnan’s shoulders. “Doing so well...so good for me...”

D’Artagnan whimpered; he could feel his own prick being pressed against the sheets, but it wasn’t enough. He started to reach and stroke himself off, but Aramis grabbed his wrists and pinned them up by his head.

“Trust me,” Aramis gasped, still thrusting, “I’ll take care of you. Promise, I promise...”

D’Artagnan squirmed, trying to break free, but Aramis’ hold was firm. D’Artagnan could do nothing but let Aramis push into him, pull out, and then push in again. It was maddening, and he was helpless to Aramis’ whims. He was loving _every second_. He cried out, not caring that at this point Porthos and Constance could probably hear him; he wanted this.

Aramis’ thrusts began to lose their rhythm, his own moans growing louder until he let out one last long cry and his hips eventually stilled. D’Artagnan whimpered, still trying to rub out his own release against the sheets, before Aramis pulled out gently and turned him over.

“Poor boy,” he soothed, running his hand down D’Artagnan’s chest. “All worked up, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

And then Aramis’ hand found its way to D’Artagnan’s cock, wrapping around it and pumping gently. D’Artagnan moaned loudly, his hips pushing into Aramis’ grip again and again. Then Aramis’ grip tightened just enough for D’Artagnan to let out a gasping moan before losing himself for a moment as he came hard and nearly blacked out.

D’Artagnan floated for a while, conscious and yet not fully aware. He vaguely felt Aramis plant a kiss on his forehead, before getting up. D’Artagnan heard the door open, and almost worried that Aramis was leaving. But after the door closed, he once more felt a body next to his; this time, however, he also felt something slightly scratchy working its way over his cock, balls, and hole, half-cleaning up the mess that had just been made.

It took a couple of minutes for his brain to reconnect to the rest of his body; he blinked, turning his head to look at Aramis. Of course his companion was looking like the world’s smuggest bastard right now.

“I have to say,” Aramis smirked, “that this birthday turned out better than I thought it would.”

He kissed D’Artagnan briefly before arranging him so that the Gascon was draped over him like a blanket.

D’Artagnan smiled into Aramis’ chest before replying,

“I have to say, this mission turned out better than I thought it would, too.”

“Well,” Aramis said, “Best make sure you get _all_ the information you came for. You can interrogate me in the morning. For now, merely torture me with knowing you are present but I am unable to act as I am asleep.”

“Sounds horrible, I’m sure,” D’Artagnan huffed, still grinning. 

They lay there for a while, silently entangled, their breathing patterns matching. Then, D’Artagnan had a thought.

“Aramis?”

“Hmm?” Aramis was nearly asleep, but he cracked one eye open for the sake of courtesy.

“That thing you said, about doing it the other way round...”

“If you think that I have taught you everything I would like you to know after one night, young man,” Aramis huffed playfully, “then clearly you need to get to know me better. Which you will. That’s how these things tend to go, anyway.”

“Oh, really?” D’Artagnan asked.

“My boy,” Aramis smiled, stroking a hand gently through D’Artagnan’s hair, “trust me. This is the start of a beautiful partnership.”


End file.
